


Who's Laughing Now, Mr Comedian?

by FangIsland, Walsingham



Series: The Prophecy of Mr Byrne [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, British Comedy RPF
Genre: Blood, Different Class, Gen, Violence, stanley knife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangIsland/pseuds/FangIsland, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walsingham/pseuds/Walsingham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Quentin''s POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who's Laughing Now, Mr Comedian?

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read this, I'm really, really sorry, particularly to Ed Byrne.

   The older man quivered against the wall, eyes fixed on the blade in my hand. I lowered my arm and pushed the blade of the Stanley knife into his left shoulder, tearing through his plaid shirt as I pulled down. A painful-sounding noise came from his open mouth. The blade slid diagonally down his chest smoothly, only interrupted half way by a button on his shirt. The sound of it ripping open pleased my ears, the sight of blood bubbling out of the deep cut in his flesh making me smile. The blood ran down his chest and the ragged edges of the gash flapped slightly in the cool London night breeze. I lifted the bloody knife out of his stomach and rest it against the other shoulder. My arm loosened on his throat, I didn't want him to faint from lack of oxygen before I'd finished with him. He barely had the energy to scream.

   I began the second incision, digging the tip further into his shoulder than before. I mirrored the previous cut with surgeon-like precision. His blood-soaked shirt waved open life a crude flag. I could feel the comedian begin to slump, and pushed my arm back into his windpipe. Pulling the Stanley knife out, I wiped it clean on a bare section of his skin, and I watched his face as thick blood leaked between his lips and dripped down, staining his faintly-stubbled chin. His throat convulsed under my forearm as his lungs tried to expel the unwelcome liquid, but only resulted in more of it spilling out onto his tattered shirt and chest. His eyes rolled back into his skull, the whites shining in the dark.

   Ed's discarded phone lit up the shadows with a text from Dara. Angrily, I used the toe of my boot to pull it closer before grinding the screen to powder under my heel. The light flickered and died. 

   Looking back at Ed, the blood oozing from his mouth had begun to stain my grey sleeve. I let him go and stepped back, watching him fall to the concrete, his legs collapsing beneath him. He fell onto his chest, blood still flowing freely, His land lay flat, palms down, beside his head, fingernails breaking as he tried to pull himself away, but he didn't have enough life left in him.

   I watched as he faded, darkness seeping along the ground.

**Author's Note:**

> Any unoriginal material used was borrowed from 'Ed Byrne: Different Class' and belongs solely to Ed Byrne.
> 
> Please note that I do not take offence to Mr Byrne's joke, and advise that no one else do either. Please also note that this is a work of fiction, and I do not wish to cause Mr Byrne harm myself and do not wish to see harm done to him.


End file.
